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30 March 2004 | 4864 words
Summary: Boromir is dead and the two men to whom he meant most are in great need of comfort.
Disclaimer: Obviously Tolkien’s, certainly not mine (though god only knows I wish they were). I’m not making any money, even though I could dearly use it! Any other references belong to New Line cinema and associated companies.
Author note: Oh my god was this fic painful to write! You would not believe the hours of darkness I sat up writing this when I should have been asleep. I’m serious! For the past few weeks I’ve had no social life, and I’m sure there are vast parts of my medical education which will suffer greatly because I was slaving over this fic when I should have been studying! Also I think my boyfriend now believes I love these boys more than I do him (which of course I do!), no he has been very patient, not least when I’m asking him to help with descriptions! So what I’m trying to say is this fic was so hard to nail, I could really do with feedback; but be gentle, I’m a very fragile being!
NB: Though this is a sequel to A Touch in the Darkness, the canon of this fic is a little confused to say the least! I’m taking extreme liberties with both the book and the film in order to make this work. Though as often as possible I’ve tried to stay true to both character and setting. So please stick with it, you won’t be disappointed. I hope!
Aragorn was home; yet he had never felt so empty in his long life. The trumpets of the city of the white towers rang out as the fragments of the fellowship rode wearily to the gates; yet it sounded so hollow. For Boromir was dead, and nothing had been right since. The road from Lothlórien had been a dark one, his cloak and tunic still bore the dark stains that were his lover’s blood; spilt in sacrifice. And so Gondor’s rightful king returned home without it’s most beloved son. Aragorn dismounted slowly, for all his body ached. He handed the reins to a waiting groom and stood ready to face the guardians of Gondor. Of all the encounters of the past few weeks he dreaded this most. His duty to tell his beloved’s father and brother that he had fallen, that their kin was dead. It was practically more than he was willing to bear.
Boromir’s kin were instantly recognizable among the assembled court, his father the image of Boromir had age been allowed to work upon his features. He bowed low before the steward before turning his gaze upon Faramir; what he saw there took his breath away. It was as if in a moment death had been washed away and Boromir restored to him in living, breathing flesh. Aragorn had scarce ever seen siblings so alike. Faramir wore his raven hair in almost the same fashion and length as his dear departed brother. They had the same deep brown eyes, the same curved sensual lips, the same strong graceful frame. Gazing upon him Aragorn saw Boromir in his youth as clearly as if looking through time; and he felt a sob choke in his throat.
"You are welcome here Aragorn son of Arathorn, though I wish only that your visit had come in better times." It was Boromir’s father who spoke, though it was Faramir who seemed to burn with the desire to speak. The younger man glanced about him quickly, and over Aragorn’s shoulder into the crowded court. Aragorn knew the question would come, though he had little strength left to answer it.
"Where is my brother? Where is Boromir? We have had no word since he rode out from Rivendell" Meeting Faramir’s eyes he saw the love there, for it reflected the love buried deep in his own soul. A need, a want that threatened to overwhelm and drown them both. He took the young man’s hands in his own, drawing the strength he needed to speak of the thing that caused him so much pain.
"I wish with all my heart that I did not have to speak of this, but it is as it is. For your brother is dead, he was wounded and fell not one week hence; and there has not been a day since in which my soul has not ached because of it."
With that he fell heavily to his knees and began to weep.
Aragorn looked about the room slowly, it was large and very dark. The windows opening onto the east side of the tower showing nothing save the complete blackness of the sky outside; there were no stars, no cloud, just darkness. The fire in the grate had long since burned low, it’s embers gentle glow scarcely casing any light upon the sleeping chamber. Why had they put him here? Both Faramir and his father had been insistent that he was to reside in Boromir’s suite of chambers; four rooms high up on the eastern side of the tower. He had wanted to refuse, afraid of being haunted by reminders of his lover, fearful of the ghosts in the walls.
He needn’t have worried. Boromir had been a warrior and as such never settled anywhere easily, Aragorn had found no obvious external sign that his beloved had ever dwelt here. There were little things of course; the chest against the wall was stacked high with his clothes. Tunics, cloaks, britches and robes, he had tried pressing his nose to the soft cloth, burying his face in it’s warmth; desperate for some scent, some reminder of the reality of the man he had so recently clasped in his arms. But it was not to be. The vast servantage of Gondor were terribly efficient, and each new garment he pulled from the box brought with it the scent of soap and dried flowers. So he’d put them back, slowly, carefully, tears streaming down his weather worn cheeks.
Finally, too worn with soul ache and weeping he fell into the large soft bed that had cushioned his lover’s body for many years.
He knew it was a dream, and the pain of that knowledge nearly startled him into waking. Yet he fought it. Clinging to the last desperate moments of sweetness in a world of emptiness. Boromir was here, pressed all along the length of his body from behind, so close that not even the thinnest of blades may have been inserted between their shuddering flesh. He felt his breath hot upon his neck, then his kisses there also. Warm, soft lips tracing the line of his ear, strong hands stroking his chest holding him so close. Where their bodies met, his flesh felt aflame, his britches tight and damp across his straining manhood.
"Boromir" he whispered, desperate for some contact with his dream induced love, wanting to deepen the illusion so much that it may, just for a moment, eclipse the bitter reality.
"Is dead" a voice, yet not his lovers. This voice was softer, smoother, and it was speaking of things he had no heart to hear. Confused he tried to escape the embrace, the tender caress now seeming so menacing. But the arms held him fast, the touch never faltering.
"Boromir!" it was a cry for help now, a plea to his lost warrior to come and save him from the stranger in his bed.
"Is gone" the voice repeated, never loosing the softness, the reassuring tone.
"Faramir?" he asked suddenly comprehending the nature of the man in whose arms he lay.
"Yes" Aragorn relaxed, knowing there was no danger in Gondor’s youngest son.
"What are you doing here?"
"I wanted to see you"
"You loved my brother?" It was a question, not a reply.
"Aye, that I did, with all my soul"
"That’s not what I asked" Faramir punctuated this statement with a soft caress to the front of Aragorn’s britches; his half-hard cock throbbed at the touch.
"Yes, I loved your brother"
"How long?" Faramir had settled against him, head in the crook of his neck, waiting.
"Since the first night in the blackness of Khazad-Dum, Boromir was having..." he paused suddenly struck by the memory //"By the time my brother came to release me I was sobbing, I don’t believe he ever relieved his sense of guilt. Yet any time spent in the darkness since as always inspired the nightmares."//
"Having what?" Faramir’s body was suddenly tense, his breathing heavy. "Nightmares? The nightmares about the dark? He was having them again?"
"Yes, he was having them again" Aragorn sighed, knowing the terrible tide of emotions he had just released for the younger man.
"It was my fault" Faramir whispered "all my fault! I was so angry. I thought if I could just put Boromir away somewhere, hide him away in the darkness then father may just notice me". Faramir’s voice wavered now, Aragorn could hear the sobs so near to breaking. He shifted so Faramir now lay in his arms, wrapping his warmth, his comfort about the younger man.
"I lay in bed all that night, imagining all sorts of terrible things happening to him, down there, in the dark; but I was too afraid myself to go down and release him" Faramir paused, his breathing deep and rhythmic; Aragorn felt the reverberation all through his own weary flesh. He squeezed the young man gently, urging him to go on with his story; to purge his soul of the grief and the guilt.
"I shall never forget the way he looked when I found him, it broke me; I don’t think I have ever been truly whole since." Faramir turned in Aragorn’s arms. In the shadowy light the men looked at each other, Faramir’s eyes deep, soft, brimming with tears. Aragorn met the gaze with his own, feeling his own heart melt and ache all at once; slowly, almost without his control he felt the tears brim then fall, following the channel so many of their fellows had carved before. He dropped his gaze, only to raise it again when he felt a single hot wet droplet fall upon his chest, and run down across his skin. Faramir’s eyes were heavy lidded, his lips damp and slightly parted, the suggestion of a question hanging upon them.
"Faramir?" he asked softly, brushing away the young mans tears with the back of his hand.
"I loved my brother Aragorn, with all my heart, with all my soul, with all my being. I shall live forever in his shadow, and that shadow is so much darker now he is gone. But you loved him too, yet in a way I never could. Your flesh and his were as one, so some part of him lives in you still. I see it Aragorn, I saw it when I saw you out upon the road coming to our gate; he is in you, you burn with his light, his strength; and I want it. Love me Aragorn, I came to you tonight so you may take me as you took my brother, and somehow share the last of my brother’s soul. Please Aragorn, I need this."
For a long, silent moment Aragorn watched him, breathing the same hot air, trying to absorb the implication of Faramir’s words.
"I don’t know" he said finally " it will not bring him back Faramir, it could never bring him back" Faramir did not speak, instead he bent and brushed Aragorn’s weather chapped lips with his own. The touch was feather light, and blissfully soft; Aragorn was transported back to the dream from which Faramir had awoken him mere moments before.
"Aye, but you look like your brother" Aragorn breathed softly. Again Faramir did not speak, but his hands clenched against the firm muscle of the ranger’s chest. Aragorn reached out a hand and caressed the soft bulge in the young mans britches.
"Is this truly what you wish Faramir? I would do nothing to cause you more grief, or any more pain"
"Would it cause you pain?" Faramir asked, his fingertip stroking Aragorn’s nipple into hardness.
"No, in truth I think it would go some way to easing the ache in my soul."
"Then I wish it, with all of mine."
Their lips met again, Aragorn lapping at the heated boundary of Faramir’s mouth, tongue questing entry with a passion born out of pain. Gondor’s youngest son matched his passion with equal need, pressing every inch of his partially naked flesh against his fellow man. Below the waist both men were still clothed, both in britches. Aragorn’s the weather worn leather of his journey, Faramir’s somewhat finer, a smooth lucid cloth somewhere between silk and water. As Aragorn ran his fingers along the other mans thighs, he could feel every twitch and shudder of the muscle. Slowly, with consummate tenderness he began to unlace the ribbon binding the fabric closed. As the knot slid free, so Faramir’s cock sprang free into his waiting hands; hot, hard and weeping. He heard the young mans shuddered sigh as he began to stroke, wrapping his palm around the whole length and moving with a firm, rhythmic intensity. Faramir spread his thighs and thrust up into Aragorn’s skilled ranger hands; his fingers clenching spasmodically around the muscle of Aragorn’s upper arms.
There was an extremity to his touch, an urgency to his fingertips pressed against muscle; it was almost a longing, something that made Aragorn want to hold him, protect him, an urge he would never have connected with any man, let alone another warrior. Softly he pushed him away from his body, more to see his beautiful face than want to be parted from the feeling. The ranger felt every throb of blood in his constricted veins, but this only encouraged him into faster movements slickened by the juices of Faramir’s own body, and Faramir was trembling, he could see it in his slender body, feel it through the fingers still pressed against his flesh.
For a long time there was only silence in the flickering shadows, broken spasmodically by a gasp or a sigh. For Aragorn the arousal was dizzying, clouding his senses, flesh burning with the heat of Faramir’s touch. In the ecstatic half darkness the sons of Gondor became one in his mind, pouring his thwarted love for one now upon the other. To his body, his aching cock, Boromir was alive and burning in his arms. Each sigh or half sob creating him anew, a ghost moving with them in the darkness. Faramir was pulling Aragorn against him, almost as if he were trying to crawl into the man who was saving him with bliss. Since Boromir’s death Aragorn had been unable to recall any touch but that final one. The iciness of death already dragging at his beloved’s flesh, but with every moment that passed in the darkness; Faramir’s skin on his, so close, so warm; was awakening the memory. Boromir’s head resting against his chest in their post-coupling darkness, his hands caressing sweat-dampened hair; reaching out to caress his strong handsome face. While one hand continued to stroke Faramir’s aching manhood, the other came up to trace the shape of the young mans face; taking in everything, every line, the curve of his lips, feeling his lashes flutter against his fingertips. They were so alike, and yet not so, though he could not see in the darkness his memory provided every detail of Boromir’s features, as it would do until the day he died.
"Aragorn?" Faramir’s voice, tight with passion and aching need, brought him startlingly back into the present. The man in his arms was not Boromir, Boromir was dead; and loosing himself in memory was not fair to the strong, sensual, living creature writhing against his flesh.
"I’m here" he whispered in reply, and he meant it; determined to dedicate every moment of this to Faramir; and the easing of the grief for both of them.
Slowly he released the weeping flesh from his strong hands, and began to slide down the other mans body; exploring every inch of his sandy flesh with hungry lips. Reaching a dusky nipple he sucked it gently into the hot, wet recess of his wanting mouth, rewarded by a strangled groan from the man beneath him. Faramir was chanting his name, running each word into the next so it became a constant whisper filling the hot air with the dedications of love. Aragorn paused at the warrior’s navel nuzzling with consummate tenderness, exploring the delicious dip with his tongue; lapping at the smooth skin where it ran with the sweat of arousal.
"Please" Faramir sobbed, the head of his manhood throbbing against the stubble rough flesh of the ranger’s neck.
"Forgive me" Aragorn whispered, and with that he engulfed the weeping head of the young mans cock into the silky recess of his mouth. Taking him so deeply, so completely into the depths of his throat. Instantly Faramir’s hands were in his hair, twisting the raven strands around his fingertips.
"What is there to forgive?" he asked, while his king’s tongue ran down and around his willing flesh, liberating his soul with every infinitely delicate lick. Aragorn didn’t answer him, yet he intensified his movements. Faramir pressed himself hard against the ranger’s weight, his hair brushing his face. His mouth came up to be kissed, he was trembling. His lips opened, and Aragorn was between them; tongue darting into the velvety sweetness of his lover’s mouth. Aragorn’s senses felt aflame as he touched bare skin, soft skin, and soft, yielding flesh. Suddenly he was more alive than he had ever felt in his long life, burning with the heat of living and loving.
Beneath him Faramir threw his head back as Aragorn’s huge strong hands cupped and caressed his balls, kissed his neck and face, covered his eyelids with soft butterfly kisses from warm, wet lips. His breathing was hard against his chest, the sound and its warmth sent his control spiraling. For the youngest son of Gondor there was nothing akin to it in all the known world. He felt as though the ranger had saved him. Not just his life, but his immortal soul. Plucked it from the darkness in which it had been submerged, breathing life back where he felt only death and despair. In his arms, with his fingers caressing his flesh, he felt whole again, remade, reformed. Almost like a child meek against him, yet stronger than he ever could have dreamed. In this bed all life ended, there was only light and hope and soul. Their coupling wrought an intricate web of emotion, in which he became so entangled that it pained him to move even an inch from his lovers flesh. He was hypnotized, entranced, lulled by his warmth, enclosed in his aura, comforted by the power of his touch. His cock throbbed in Aragorn’s mouth, more aroused than he could ever have believed. He was so wet, pearly droplets escaping from the swollen head and being lapped by the rangers oh so willing tongue. Then it was happening, rising like a tide, drawn by his current of pleasure. To him it seemed that the bed upon which they lay was a black hole, sucking emotion from the world to bath the two lovers in delight. Release towered like a wave above him, but before it broke there was something he had to know.
"What is there to forgive?" he asked again, tugging at the ranger’s hair to elicit a response. Aragorn’s lips slid from around his manhood, and Faramir could not help but sob for the loss of it.
"For not having the strength to prevent all this pain" and in one smooth movement he engulfed the man’s cock again. Faramir could but gasp as the wave, as if in reaction to the confession, broke over him, washing him with blissful release. The world exploded into light, then collapsing darkness as he slipped away, slave to the touch of another.
Aragorn watched Faramir pass out beneath him, struck to tears again by the similarities he bore in relation to his brother. Reaching out a hand he caressed the other mans cheek, his dark kiss swollen lips. The irony, as in all life, was that that which he longed for, the subject of his devotion, the object of his craving, the face that tortured his every waking dream, a longing which no soul could ever hope to contain, was gone. Yet here in his place was another, a shadow and a prayer; but one which may just keep him alive, where his brother had almost brought destruction. His lost lover had almost become an assassin, but now his saviour was here in the most unlikely of forms.
Slowly Faramir’s eyelids began to flicker, his breathing changing from erratic to slow and shallow again.
"I want you" Aragorn breathed turning Faramir’s chin so their lips met in an impassioned though vaguely sated kiss. He could taste him, his want, his love, his need. Though his eyes did not open, and his body showed no sighs of wakefulness, his lips moved beneath the ranger’s.
"Take me" he whispered " and end the heartache for both of us."
Aragorn took his hand softly, entwining their fingers so their flesh was almost as one. The heart within him was in torment, blooming blood for the lover he’d lost yet burning with desire for the man in his arms. With infinite tenderness he pushed the young mans knees up and back, Faramir obligingly sliding his thighs into the cradle created by Aragorn’s bent arms. Slowly, ever so slowly he lent down to kiss the sated warrior; suddenly aware of his aching need forgotten in the emotion of the last few moments. Yet now it remembered its role with renewed fervor, throbbing against the tight muscle of Faramir’s abdomen. With as little movement as he could he lent across his waiting lover, his fingers questing at the shadows on the nightstand. He grunted quietly as his fingertips traveled across Narsil in it’s sheath, and clasped around the small vile of blade oil with which he’d cleaned it earlier in the day. He uncapped it, filling the still night air with the smell of the battlefield, another harrowing reminder of how precarious love such as theirs truly was.
Faramir gasped as a single slick finger began a tender exploration at the most intimate entrance to his quivering body. He made not a sound as Aragorn pressed first one then a second finger deeply inside of him. To his touch the warrior was hot, slick, and blissfully tight; it took all his self control not to come simply in anticipation of entering that velvety channel. He placed his lips against Faramir’s ear, reveling in the sensation of his breath panted against his cheek.
"Ready beloved?" he whispered, voice husky, almost distant.
Faramir’s hands guided him there, Aragorn felt him gasp as he pushed for entry. He stroked the young warriors face as he began to move; slowly at first, reveling in the sensation of flesh against flesh, the exquisite resistance. Faramir’s hips rose to meet him, urging him deeper. Though the need was maddening, Aragorn’s flesh held vice like and throbbing in that delicious channel; he would not rush this. To cause Faramir pain now, in this moment, would be a betrayal so deep he would willingly put himself to death for it. The young man was whimpering beneath him, pressing himself up against his king; trying against all resistance to impale himself fully upon Aragorn’s aching manhood.
Aragorn looked down at him, that beautiful face glazed with perspiration. His eyes closed, lips slightly parted, wisps of hair plastered against his sun-darkened cheeks. He was exquisite, incredible, a living, breathing testament to the strength still in men and the hope that blazed between them. This knowledge was almost too much, with a deep, shuddering sigh he slid completely into his heaven-sent lover. For a moment they were still, Aragorn calling upon every ounce of self-control to keep from succumbing completely to the heat and the friction of Faramir’s fabulous body. The minutes stretched on like hours before he felt a hand upon his cheek, and the warrior’s pelvic bones pressed against his urging him on. He needed no further prompting, he understood his meaning; how could he not? So he began to move, each thrust gently but deep. Slowly their bodies perfectly entwined, limb with limb, the hot air filled with their sighs and gasps. Faramir kissed him, pressing his lips to Aragorn’s eyes, his neck, his nipples. In turn Aragorn’s hands stroked his flesh, pressing himself deeper, feeling his lover arch to meet every thrust.
To the reluctant king the world was ablaze, burning with a clarity of light he had not felt since Boromir’s passing. All was touch and sigh and sweetness, there could be no wrong so long as he had breath left to complete this act. To caress and feel, to embrace and be held in return. Without shame he began to weep, sobs punctuating each thrust; an outpouring of grief and joy; the balance so thin he could no longer distinguish where one emotion failed and the other began. Faramir was whispering his name, his voice too, heavy and thick with crying. They were kissing and weeping, caressing and entwining; dragging comfort and breath from the heat of each other’s flesh.
"He never wished you pain" Aragorn whispered, rocking deep into his lover’s body; feeling Faramir’s manhood pulse against the muscle of his abdomen.
"Pain?" Faramir asked, the word barley a whisper.
"You bore more guilt than was ever necessary"
"I never said I was sorry"
"Yet he knew, let it go beloved, forgive yourself, let it be."
"How may I ever do so?"
"Give it to me" Aragorn breathed, pressing his lips against his trembling lover.
"You already have all of me" Faramir gasped, misunderstanding the implication of the older man’s words.
"No, give me the guilt, give me the pain, Boromir lives in me still, in my heart. He cries out to give you forgiveness. Let go sweet son of Gondor, let me give you peace."
He could see the internal struggle so perfectly evident upon the warrior’s serene features, almost feel it in the shuddering flesh so closely bound about his own; and the knowledge was almost too much.
He had ceased moving during this exchange, but now he renewed his movement; faster, deeper smoother, yet never loosing the consummate tenderness that strove to tear their souls apart.
"Yes" Faramir breathed, barely more than a gasp in the heady darkness. "Forgive me" and with that he pulled himself against Aragorn, his body stiffening and trembling as he came hard against the flesh of his confessor. The sensation of his lover’s release was the final straw for Aragorn’s self control, almost in the moment he felt the sticky heat upon his body he spent himself into the welcoming heat of his beloved’s flesh; finding breath only to whisper "always" before letting the world melt away in a tide of darkness and stars.
By the time the world regained it’s clarity he found his sated beloved already asleep. For what seemed like forever he gazed down at him, following the rise and fall of his chest with every peaceful, shallow breath.
There were no lines upon his face now, in sleep it was as if he had never known pain, never known doubt; as Boromir had looked in those final moments. A sudden fear gripped his heart with this thought and he could not prevent his hand coming up to caress the young mans cheek; sensing the warmth the heat of life. Calmed he drew the man into his arms and settled down to sleep, Faramir’s head nestled in the crook of his neck.
The darkness drew itself around him and he leaned into gratefully, realizing how weary his flesh had become. Just as he closed his eyes he felt gentle fingertips stroke his cheek, smiling he leaned into the touch. A voice against his ear whispered his name, but this time it was not Faramir. He knew this voice; it was the one that spoke to him in all his dreams, that would call out to him forever, whenever he faced the darkness alone.
"Thank-you my love. So as you were to me, now be to him. We are all sons of Gondor."
"I miss you" Aragorn whispered straining into the caress that never faltered.
"I am always with you," the voice answered, and the touch was gone. Aragorn’s eyes flickered open but the shadow was gone. In its place the tangible weight of his still sleeping lover felt warm against his chest. Bending he laid one air-light kiss upon Faramir’s brow, and settled to sleep again; as the first light of dawn came drifting through the windows of the city of the white towers.
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